


you’d kill me if you could stand the sight of blood

by amorremanet



Series: a gnawing feeling leaves you quite unsure [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Abuse, Abusive Relationships, Addiction, Alcohol Withdrawal, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Challenge Response, Control Issues, Depression, Drug Withdrawal, Eating Disorders, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Escape, Ficlet Collection, Gaslighting, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Intrusive Thoughts, Kuron is Named Ryou, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Original Character(s), Overdosing, Past Keith/Shiro (Voltron), Self-Hatred, Shiro (Voltron) And Kuron Are Brothers, Shiro (Voltron) Whump, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Shiro (Voltron)-centric, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Victim Blaming, Violent Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 04:47:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 10,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12269214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amorremanet/pseuds/amorremanet
Summary: So much of Shiro’s being itches to fight back or try to run, even through the dim haze from his last hit of Vicodin. Maurice beats him on strength but Shiro’s more agile. After everything he’s only barely survived, he still has more stamina. He could make a break for it. Except there’s no telling what could happen if Shiro tries that.… The only allowance he affords himself is curling up his fingers, digging his nails into his palm.





	1. nothing harder to go through with than a vanishing act

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is an exploration of the Shiro/Sendak backstory that’s been alluded to and discussed in, “[But boys spring infernal](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11717574/).” The fact no Archive warnings apply does NOT mean this fic is going to be for everybody, and although the ending is arguably going to be happy, this fic doesn’t really get into the recovery process (mostly because that’s coming up more in the main fic).
> 
>  **Please, please, PLEASE heed the tags on this fic. It deals explicitly with an abusive relationship, and features several potential triggers in addition to that.** I tried to tag everything that I could think of, so please: heed the tags. Take care of yourselves first and foremost, and if this fic might not be safe reading for you, go read something that makes you happy. ♡
> 
> Written for the Writing Feedback Network’s, “inspired by a song” challenge (meaning each ficlet has a 1k max word-count). All of the songs were by The Mountain Goats, and are listed in the individual chapter notes. The overall work’s title is from their, “Standard Bitter Love Song #7.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by, “[Rain In Soho](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=anS6bcPpvoQ).”

“If you didn’t want this to happen,” Maurice says, “then you should have kept your _promise_ to me, Takashi. At least, you could have been more careful about covering your tracks.”

His thick, heavy fingers tap along the edge of the desk as if he’s relishing each smack against the wood, falling into a rhythm with the rain pelting against his study’s window. If Maurice likes any of this, it’s the effect he has on his fuck-toy with only his fingers. From the way Shiro inhales sharply any time Maurice’s rhythm slows, to the way that the unending pattern of strikes keeps Shiro hunched over on his elbows, bowing his head and baring the back of his neck in the exact way Maurice painstakingly taught him, no matter how something in him screams to resist, challenge Maurice like someone who gives a damn if he lives or dies, stab Maurice with the pen instead of writing the letter he demanded, look at something other than the blank legal pad or Maurice’s hand if Shiro won’t do anything else to help himself…

“You must realize that our current situation is your own doing.” Maurice’s tone is light enough that he could be commenting on the weather or making small talk with the DA’s wife at a party. But there’s a chill to it, a slithering, sinister hint that lurks right below the surface of his words. “What were you thinking, trying to call that boy?”

“You _know_ Keith’s name,” Shiro bites out and swallows thickly, watching Maurice’s hand, hoping his tone wasn’t harsh enough for Maurice to deem it, _“out of line.”_ When Maurice only hums and keeps rapping on the desk, Shiro chokes down a sigh. “I was practically blacked out, okay? To say I was _thinking_ anything gives me too much credit. It was emotional.”

“Then what you were _feeling_ when you tried to call him?” Maurice scoffs at the shiver Shiro can’t keep down, calling him pathetic without saying so aloud. “Haggling over semantics won’t repair anything you’ve done. It certainly isn’t making me believe that you’re sorry.”

“I’m _not_.” Shiro cringes as soon as he spits it out. But with a deep breath to steady himself, he explains, “How I feel about him… I didn’t _mean_ for it to happen. Then, you told me not to call him, and I did. Wasted or not, it _was_ deliberate. But I just felt? Keith’s been left so many times, by so many people, without any explanations. This time, he could know _why_. He deserves to move on. To know he didn’t do anything wrong, it’s not his fault—”

“Oh, no, of course it isn’t. I never said that…” But then Maurice’s fingers stop. “It’s _your_ fault. Keith can hardly be blamed for _your_ inability to control yourself. He shouldn’t be made to suffer for _your_ weakness and _your_ lack of moral fiber.”

So much of Shiro’s being itches to fight back or try to run, even through the dim haze from his last hit of Vicodin. Maurice beats him on strength but Shiro’s more agile. After everything he’s only barely survived, he still has more stamina. He could make a break for it.

Except there’s no telling what could happen if Shiro tries that. Instead, his throat burns to argue with Maurice. His lungs protest that the promise Maurice got out of him wasn’t fair, it should’ve been open to negotiation, and if nothing else, he can’t say taking Shiro from the old apartment was anyone’s idea but his own. He didn’t even run it by Haxus first. But shuddering, Shiro never raises his head. The only allowance he affords himself is curling up his fingers, digging his nails into his palm.

Even without looking at Maurice’s face, though, Shiro can’t mistake the cold, tight chuckle when Maurice reaches for him and he flinches. He knows too well the way that Maurice snickers while grazing Shiro’s cheek with the thick, coarse hair on the back of his hand. Pointedly refusing to crack him on the jaw, Maurice cups Shiro’s face in his palm. Each stroke of his thumb along Shiro’s cheek demands to know why Shiro won’t accept this soft-seeming contact, this purported comfort when Maurice so rarely offers him any tenderness, when they both know how much he wants it.

“What’s the matter, sweet boy?” he whispers. “Haven’t I shown you understanding through your many failures?”

“You said if I came with you, you’d take me to get _help_ ,” Shiro points out, knuckles going white. He could easily break his skin, clawing his hand like this, and he wouldn’t feel any better-grounded.

“You told me that you could kick your habit from visiting your therapist and following whatever regimen Haxus decided on.” Maurice clamps tight around Shiro’s jaw and jerks him hard, refusing to let Shiro look away from his deep scowl and his narrowed eyes. “You also told me several things that would surely interest the police. How intoxicated you were when you slept with Keith. How you might have forgotten pills at your apartment. Those prescriptions would not be in his name. Are all of them even in yours? Depending on how many you left behind…”

Maurice’s nostrils flare and he yanks Shiro up straighter. “Keith could get more prison-time for _your_ pills than for giving a few pity-fucks to a simpering, pretty boy burnout,” he growls. “Unless you care enough to _end_ whatever there was between the two of you.”

When Shiro nods, Maurice lets him go. “Good boy,” he purrs. Gently, he brushes his fingers through Shiro’s bangs. “For that, you may write in privacy and I won’t read a word before sending Keith your letter.”

As rewards go, it’s pretty paltry. But as the study door closes behind Maurice, Shiro puts pen to paper. After everything, he owes Keith this much. If Shiro’s own life is beyond hope or salvation, then he can at least make sure he doesn’t ruin Keith’s as well.


	2. out of my element, i can’t breathe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[How To Embrace A Swamp Creature](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rF4rCHK_878).”

On his fifth day without pills or alcohol, Shiro wakes up alone. If you can really call it waking up when he barely slept.

He has his own room at Maurice’s townhouse, so loneliness in the morning shouldn’t be disorienting. But for the past four days, Shiro’s only roused because Haxus shook him around, coming around to take Shiro’s vitals before leaving for the hospital.

“I would hardly bother giving you this consideration, if not for my _partner_ and his inexplicable fondness for you,” Haxus said on the second day, fixing a blood pressure cuff around Shiro’s bicep. Holding his stethoscope’s resonator in place with a long, deft finger, he squished the ball to inflate the cuff.

He dragged the process out, explaining, “Some of my colleagues would disapprove, of course. However, many doctors deny treatment to noncompliant patients and I would put you in that category. If you would rather hoard medication and binge-drink in secret than listen to my suggestions for ameliorating your punishment, then I’d have you handle the pain of withdrawals on your own.”

With a sigh, Haxus deflated the cuff and started over. That time, he listened and scribbled down numbers that he refused to let Shiro see. Digging around in a bag of supplies, he pulled out a translucent orange pill-bottle. He dropped a green-and-yellow capsule into one of Shiro’s hands, shoved a lukewarm box of apple juice into the other, and threw out a chuckle as Shiro knotted his brow. Apparently, the pill was Librium, enough of a dose to keep Shiro’s body from going into shock as the detoxification process took effect but as time showed, not enough to really take the edge off for him.

“Maurice wants you to learn from your mistakes. But he considers you _one of us_ now, and he wouldn’t appreciate it if I let you suffer the full brunt of consequences that you’ve accumulated. Mostly because they could easily kill you.” Haxus pushed his silver-rimmed glasses up his patrician nose and huffed. “So, until this unfortunate lesson is behind us, you will take what I give you and do exactly as I instruct. Even if you do not _feel_ like following my orders, you _will_ do so if you wish to continue receiving my help or his sympathy. That _includes_ eating.”

That threat dogs at the back of Shiro’s mind now, as he blots the comforter at the sweat on his face and neck. It’s not fair that he can feel so flushed and feverish while he’s only wearing boxers and his old Blondie tank-top, but it is what it is. Shiro groans as he ruffles his hand over his hair. His undercut is growing out and getting grimy. As he rubs at the bridge of his nose, he can’t remember if he took a shower after getting his pills cut off or if he told himself that he did so he could sleep, in one of the few moments when he’s managed to pass out. Not that (maybe) lying to himself has helped, since Shiro’s spent the past several days feeling like he’s been hit by a series of incredibly angry buses, but that’s the entire point of this exercise.

Forcing himself up, Shiro grimaces and his head spins. His arms quiver and don’t stop once he’s on his feet. His stomach growls loud enough that the neighbors can probably hear it. Hunger drags its claws around his insides, but Shiro grits his teeth and shuffles to his dresser. He can’t let this hold him up, not when he wants to vomit even more than usual, simply from being stuck in his own skin. Clean clothes in hand, he shambles into the corridor, heading toward the bathroom.

He’s fumbling at the linen closet when a hand curls around his shoulder. Clutching his clothes to his chest, Shiro snaps into the straightest posture he can manage, which isn’t much but he chokes down the gasp, at least. Doesn’t stop his hands from trembling, but he’ll take what he can get. That’s the best he can expect, until further notice.

“Eat something first,” Maurice tells him, squeezing Shiro just a bit too tightly.

“What’s the _point_.” Shiro rolls his eyes at the stacks of towels, and he’d bet Maurice can tell. He’s not stupid. He could guess from the petulant whining that his _fuck-toy_ doesn’t feel like being an actual adult right now. “I’m gonna puke it up anyway, so who cares.”

“I care, Takashi.” That would sound nice if Maurice’s grip weren’t making Shiro wince right now, and if Maurice didn’t tack on, “And you had best _not_ vomit. If you know what’s _good_ for you—”

“I’m _detoxing_ , I haven’t had a _choice_ ,” Shiro snaps and flinches, because he knows what’s coming.

Except Maurice doesn’t hit him. There’s a discontented huff, then both of Maurice’s hands work over knots of tension in Shiro’s shoulders.

Slouching, Shiro bows his head. “Sorry,” he mutters. “I _want_ to keep something down? But everything I’ve eaten, it’s come back up… Thinking about food makes me itch like I don’t fit in my skin… I thought if I cleaned up and fixed my hair…?”

“Oh, my sweet boy,” Maurice sighs, nosing at Shiro’s gross, sweat-caked hair as though everything’s fine. “You’re shaking far too badly for that. Not unless you want to visit the emergency room while Haxus is at the hospital. He may not work the ER anymore but he could easily find out that you’ve been admitted. But if you _want_ to risk that…”

Gulping, Shiro shakes his head, _“No.”_

“I bought strawberry frozen fruit-pops for you. I thought you might have an easier time keeping them down.” Maurice pinches at a tight spot until Shiro whines for him. “Come eat one for me and I’ll shave your sides for you after you’ve showered.”

Shiro doesn’t need to think; he only nods. When Maurice kisses the top of his spine, Shiro lies to himself that everything will be okay.


	3. i hope the worst isn’t over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[No Children](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vm-NW1RwPY8).”

By the end of his punishment, Shiro’s worst withdrawal symptoms peter out, leaving him with the dull ache he’s never known how to handle. Worse than having it there, though, is the knowledge that, for as much as he’s thrown at his void and as fucked up as he’s gotten, Shiro hasn’t banished it. It’s still there in the center of his chest, nagging for his attention and _hurting_ him even though a void is, by definition, _nothing_.

Maybe it’s the absence, Shiro muses, spilling his ninety white tablets on the kitchen table.

Maybe it’s not the absence so much as being aware of it, he thinks, counting the pills out one-by-one, then two-by-two, then three-by-three, until finally, he’s satisfied that neither Maurice nor Haxus took any of the Vicodin that the label promises.

Trust was supposed to be one of the things that Shiro learned from this exercise. Trusting that Maurice knows what’s best for _his_ boy, and that Haxus will prescribe Shiro enough pills and he doesn’t need to argue about dosages anymore. Maurice handed the bottle over on his way to the office, ruffling Shiro’s hair and kissing his forehead so gently, like a real boyfriend would. He said, _“You’ve done very well. Take them, if you like, Takashi. As long as you’ve learned better from this and don’t force my hand again, it’s your choice.”_

Of course, Shiro takes them. Even knowing that he has three pills per day in this scrip, he takes two as soon as Maurice is gone. That gets Shiro through jimmying the lock on one of Maurice’s desk drawers, where he finds the stash that supposedly got flushed two weeks ago.

That discovery, in turn, is enough motivation for him to take a walk, despite how he doesn’t have another session with Dr. Hall until next week. For one thing, he needs aspirin, enough that he can swap it out for the Vicodin and hope that Maurice doesn’t notice. He considers going to the gym and _knows_ he should? But Shiro ends up in a park instead, sprawled on a bench, soaking up sunlight and grumbling while he waits for Ryou to answer his phone. It’s been over two weeks since Shiro heard a voice that didn’t belong to Maurice, Haxus, the TV, or someone on his ipod. Calling his brother is _allowed_ , Maurice isn’t around to eavesdrop, and God, Shiro needs this more than he ever needs his meds.

“Kashi, what’s going on?” Ryou splutters without giving Shiro a chance to catch up on his twin’s life. “You haven’t posted new music in weeks. Matt said Mark and Keith think you’re in rehab, but your therapist said otherwise. Aunt Satomi hasn’t heard _anything_ from you—”

“If she’s sent me anything, I haven’t seen it? I tried to call Keith but then I’ve spent the past two weeks sick?” Which isn’t technically a lie, but Ryou huffs skeptically. Or maybe like he’s concerned. It’s hard to tell without him here to look at, so Shiro _groans_ and confesses, “I _was_ sick. I couldn’t sleep, everything hurt, I could barely eat without puking—”

“So, you didn’t get high for two weeks.” Ryou’s trying to sound stern, not mad but disappointed. Without the weary sound like sad puppy pouting, he would’ve managed. “Are you clean now?”

“God, _no_ …” Shiro whines. “Maurice gave my pills back. I hope I _never_ go through that _again_.”

For a while, Ryou’s breathing and wordless bellyaching are the only reasons why Shiro knows the line hasn’t cut out. But his brother finally pipes up, asking, “Is Maurice with you right now? Is he listening?” Hearing that they can speak freely seems to settle Ryou’s nerves. Or that’s what Shiro chooses to hear in Ryou’s next question: “Kashi, are you okay?”

“I have my pills back so yeah, I’m doing fine? And it’s a nice day outside. Is it nice in Massachusetts?” Apparently, that’s not what Ryou meant. Shiro grinds his fingers into his temple. “I didn’t die getting stabbed or downing six Cuervo-and-cherry-flavored-hydrocodone cocktails on an empty stomach. What could a double dose of meds do that hasn’t already failed to kill me?”

This is not the right answer, either. Mostly, it makes Ryou’s breath hitch and sends a timid noise creaking out of his throat, in turn reminding Shiro that Ryou didn’t know about how he used the liquid Vicodin he got after being stabbed, because Shiro didn’t _want_ him to know.

“That’s _not_ what I’m worried about,” he snaps, then murmurs out an apology. “I swear I’m not angry. Scared _for you_ , but not—”

“Don’t bother,” Shiro mumbles. His eyes sting and mist over. Scrubbing at one in vain, Shiro lets slip an audible, _“Ugh.”_ Why didn’t he accept dehydration? It’s better than crying or even the threat of that. “I can handle this, okay? It’s been worse before and I’ve slogged through. I have my meds, so it won’t kill me.”

“Your _meds_ still might,” Ryou points out like Shiro doesn’t already know. “ _What’s_ been worse before?”

“I don’t know, the _emptiness_? The _void_?” Shiro doesn’t want to sound ungrateful, but Ryou isn’t making sense. As he goes on, something sharp twists in Shiro’s chest, hissing at him to _stop tattling_ : “I wish I needed to shave so I’d have an excuse to cut myself. I wish Maurice would get rough again when I get mouthy. If an OD ever _worked_ , I could take him down with me…”

“Kashi…?”

“I’m sorry,” Shiro whispers, dragging himself up. He squints at a red hooded shirt, but it’s worn by some blonde girl he doesn’t recognize. “Shouldn’t have called. You’re busy, you don’t need to deal with this—”

“I _want_ to help. Please call again if it gets any worse?” Ryou’s voice is so tight, it could snap in two as he says, “Kashi, _promise_ me.”

Shiro agrees, hoping it’ll put Ryou’s mind at ease, but as he yanks his hair, Shiro isn’t certain that he means anything.


	4. speed up to the precipice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[Cry For Judas](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QjByx-eMVe8).”

“You owe me explanations, _Takashi_.”

With a deep sigh, Shiro shifts on the sofa in the downstairs sitting room but doesn’t sit up. He doesn’t let go of his guitar. He only puts his up head on the arm and idly picks at the strings without playing any chords. Blinking up at how Maurice glowers at him, Shiro doesn’t find any answers, no sign that Maurice has the first clue what Shiro has or hasn’t done lately. The only thing he doesn’t understand is how Maurice has both hands behind his back. But Shiro can work with that.

He shrugs. “No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me,” Maurice snarls.

“You said you could _tell_ if I were lying,” Shiro points out, arching an eyebrow.

Sure, he’s not exactly being _truthful_ , like how, “sitting room” is a cute misnomer for this place. Mostly, it plays showroom for Maurice’s old trophies, expensive junk, and irreplaceable family heirlooms that some grandparent or great-uncle carried with them, fleeing Daibazaal after the Russian Revolution. The sofa’s nice, and the chairs, and if Maurice ever had guests over, this place _could_ function as a sitting room, but he never does. Since getting his pills back, Shiro’s been the room’s most frequent user, coming here to practice or work on his new songs.

Between him and Maurice, though, it’s not a matter of badly chosen labels. Clearly, Maurice is bluffing to tighten the screws until Shiro blurts out confessions to misdeeds that Maurice didn’t know about. For all Shiro can think of that he could get in trouble over, from making, _“worst case scenario”_ plans with Ryou to moving his things into storage while Maurice and Haxus haven’t been here to stop him, he technically isn’t lying. Not until Maurice makes open accusations.

Instead, Shiro winces as one of his notebooks drops onto his chest, barely missing his guitar. Right, he let Maurice see some of the material he’s been working on, proof that Shiro’s done something lately other than his drugs. He frowns at the lyrics that he scribbled on the page. Not that he’s outright rejected them yet, but they fail at recreating how he felt when he called Ryou in the park six weeks ago and until those clouds lifted. Parts of them, Shiro can salvage with some elbow grease, but most of the lines sound like he borrowed words from John Darnielle, Joni Mitchell, Richard Siken, and Fiona Apple, rather than writing any of his own.

“It’s only a _draft_?” Shiro offers, drawling as he sets his guitar in its case.

Maurice says nothing, only furrowing his brow when Shiro rolls his eyes. It sounds odd when Shiro lets his voice twang like this, unleashing all the Corpus Christi he’s never fully shaken while channeling his best Cher Horowitz or Gretchen Weiners. But Maurice has heard this voice plenty in five years. It used to egg him on when Shiro wanted that. Now, it spells out Shiro’s grievances without naming them.

Narrowing his eyes to slits, Maurice says, “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“God, you _must_ be rusty on copyright law…” Shiro stretches out his back as he drags himself up off the sofa. Faux-unruffled, he works at kink in his neck, then rolls his shoulders. “I haven’t made money off that. Sure, it’s derivative, but it’s a _draft_ that I’m _revising_. Intellectual property regulations don’t apply.”

Forcing himself to the fullest height he can manage, Shiro faces Maurice head-on. This earns a glare, but Shiro sets his jaw and squares his shoulders. Folding his arms over his chest, he wishes he had Ryou here to hug him. Being the chubby twin makes Ryou’s hugs so much better than the ones Shiro gives himself. But Ryou _isn’t_ here and Shiro can’t let his heart-rate spike like this for nothing. No matter how much it feels like he has eels wriggling through his muscles and vipers tightening around his lungs, he can’t slow down. He’s started this self-defense and giving up will only make things worse. Wherever this goes, Shiro has to see it through.

“The _content_ is where my interest lies,” Maurice explains, extending his arm. “I could not care less how _uninspired_ you find your own self-indulgent, plagiaristic, post-adolescent drivel. I could have told you how—”

Shiro smacks Maurice’s hand away from his face. “ _ **Don’t** touch me._ ”

Maurice’s eyes flash and Shiro steps backward to the other side of the table. Moving toward the door, he glances around the shelves instead of looking at Maurice. For once, he could stomach that, but Shiro needs to find something, anything he can use to fight back… But next thing Shiro knows, Maurice’s breath steams against his face.

“ _‘I’m destroying myself before you can,’_ ” Maurice growls, clamping hard on Shiro’s bicep. “ _‘It’s the only way I have left to get out.’_ Did you think I wouldn’t notice? That I wouldn’t decipher your meaning?”

“Decipher _what_? I wasn’t _subtle_.” Shiro coughs out a shattered-sounding laugh. “Most people express concern after reading something like that, y’know.” He wriggles; Maurice tightens his grip. “Let me _go_.”

“Where? To choke down those pills that you stole back from me?” He chuckles when Shiro’s eyes go wide, and full-on laughs when Shiro winces, feeling the hair on Maurice’s hand trail down his cheek. “Always so spirited… If you wanted to leave me, you would have. But you didn’t. Because you belong to me now, don’t you, Takashi.”

Shiro’s voice gives out on without letting him say anything. Maurice snickers, and Shiro snaps. He shoves at Maurice’s chest with everything he has. Maurice crashes into a bookshelf, and an old trophy clatters onto his head with a sick, heavy crack.

Shiro can’t gasp, can’t stick around to see if there’s any blood, can’t grab a better pair of shoes. He shambles out the door in his old sandals and runs, no idea where he’s going. As long as it’s somewhere else, Shiro doesn’t care.


	5. becoming what we are

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[Collapsing Stars](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9bY0Vdo0z18).”

Shiro makes it to the nearest El station before noticing that he doesn’t have his phone or wallet. Palming around his pocket, he finds enough spare change to use a payphone but he can’t find any. Even if he could, they wouldn’t help. He only knows one phone number by heart anymore, and whoever’s living his childhood home these days, they probably can’t do anything for him.

What would he even tell them, anyway, assuming that the number hasn’t changed and anyone actually picked up? _“Hi, my name is Takashi Shirogane. We’ve probably never met but you live in the house where I grew up. I’m in Chicago and I’m desperate. My life is a mess and it’s all my fault. My parents have been dead since 2009 and I can’t call my brother or our aunt for help because I can’t remember either of their numbers but also can’t get at my cell”_ … Yeah, right. That’ll go over well.

It’s dark when he gives up and sulks back to the townhouse, sweat-soaked _“Frankie Says Relax”_ t-shirt cleaving to his chest, which only makes it feel even bigger on him. Night curls its sticky, humid fingers around his throat in a way that makes Shiro wish Maurice were choking him instead. Then the hand crushing his windpipe would be real and Shiro wouldn’t be going crazy. Trudging up the front steps, Shiro keeps his breaths slow and deep, as much as he can manage. Even without any cops swarming outside, that’s easier said than done when Shiro’s heart races like it has something to escape.

He finds the front door unlocked, but brushes it off and sneaks inside. Shiro doesn’t trust the silence, but maybe if he hurries, he can grab whatever he can carry and get back out. Halfway up the stairs, one of them creaks. Shiro halts, holding his breath like it can undo anything. In a flash, Haxus is leaning on the railing, wrinkling his nose like he’s catching a whiff of three-day-old, sun-roasted roadkilled skunk.

“Guilty conscience?” he says, putting his pointy chin in his palm. “Or did you simply go too long without a hit?”

Shiro clings to the banister but tries not to grip on too tightly. “Is he okay?”

“ _Please_ ,” Haxus scoffs, arching an eyebrow in the same way he would for an argumentative child. “Maurice is far stronger than you understand, _boy_. Nothing you could have done to him would be worse than anything that he has survived thus far. He isn’t even upset. He requested that I send you to him when you returned.”

With a hard gulp, Shiro skitters up the rest of the stairs and heads where Haxus nods, over to the master bedroom. Hesitating at the threshold, Shiro curls his fingers around the edge of the half-cracked door and peeks in at Maurice on the bed, reclined against the headboard. Head lolling back against the wall, he could be asleep. Shiro could bolt back to his room… But Haxus could stop him and drag him back, and he could guess that Shiro meant to run… But it doesn’t matter, in the end. Maurice summons him by name. Although Shiro enters as instructed, he presses his back against the door until Maurice beckons, patting the mattress by his thigh.

When Shiro sits, Maurice says nothing, only gives Shiro a little upward quirk of his lips, as if they both know what’s so amusing. Shiro’s clueless, whatever it is, but as he twists his fingers up in his denim cut-offs, he has to force himself to keep looking at Maurice’s face. There’s a glimmer in his inscrutable eyes that makes Shiro’s shoulders tense. Something in him wants to scream. Another something wants to break every last expensive piece of garbage in Maurice’s study and the sitting room. Still another something wants to shove Maurice face-first into a furnace, beat his skull in with a brick, or strangle him harder than he’s ever choked anybody… Even with several inches of bed between them, that part of Shiro burns so hot that he doesn’t know if anything could snuff it out.

Under the hem of his shorts, Shiro scratches his thigh. It doesn’t dispel the images plaguing his mind or the emotions raging through him, but the pain reminds him that those thoughts aren’t real. Breaking the silence, he bites out, “How’s your head?”

“Haxus would be better equipped to answer that, but I’ve received no complaints.”

Maurice chuckles at the expression that spasms across Shiro’s face, or maybe at that alleged punchline. How can he make a dick joke so soon after a head injury? How can he motion for Shiro to come closer as if his _sweet boy_ didn’t give it to him? As if Shiro isn’t biting his lip to stave off the wish that he’d done more damage or finished the job instead of running?

When Shiro shakes his head, Maurice sighs so gently that Shiro almost believes his claim, “I’m glad you’ve come home safely.”

“Yeah,” Shiro hisses before he can stop himself. “God forbid you have to find a new fuck-toy…”

Maurice coughs like he’s correcting Shiro’s behavior at another black-tie event so he can flaunt Shiro without further embarrassment. Flushing pink, Shiro drops his gaze but doesn’t bow his head. It’s bad enough that he scoots closer when Maurice taps the mattress again, coming to his side like a trained dog. But so help him, Shiro _won’t_ bare the back of his neck. Not this time.

“I _do_ care for you, Takashi. You are one of us. You _belong_ here.”

“I don’t think I do,” Shiro says, whispering so low, Maurice leans in to hear him. “I’m not like you.”

“Oh, _my_ sweet boy…” Crooking his fingers under Shiro’s chin, looking him dead in the eye, Maurice flashes a knife’s-edge smirk. “I saw the fire burning when you wanted me dead. Who else could _ever_ love you exactly as you are, if not another _monster_?”


	6. if my path fills with darkness and there is no sign of light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[Isaiah 45:23](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gSSah_EKwhQ).”

It’s another six weeks before Shiro decides what he needs to do.

The answer comes over breakfast, while he’s hunched over, picking at his oatmeal, trying to tune out the conversation between Maurice and Haxus about taking Maurice’s Mother to St. Louis for her birthday. Simply being in the kitchen is not an invitation to listen. More importantly, Shiro skipped lunch yesterday, then missed dinner. He thought he’d get away with it, or that he might make himself look pathetic enough for Maurice to take pity and let him off the hook.

_“Oh, sweet boy,”_ he might’ve said, in some different reality where his concern for Shiro is genuine and not alleged. _“I don’t understand, but I appreciate your continued efforts. Please don’t push yourself too hard.”_

Except, yesterday, Shiro couldn’t bring himself to throw away the sandwich and pre-made salad saran-wrapped in the fridge for him. Merely thinking of covering his tracks like that made Shiro’s mind drift to Keith, which in turn made him spend all afternoon at the gym, waiting to get lost in the pain and out of his own head, if even for a second. Ever meticulous, Haxus noticed that the lunch was still on its plate and that Shiro hadn’t made himself anything else. When Maurice got home and found his fuck-toy knocked out on the sitting room sofa, he brushed his fingers through Shiro’s bangs and held him in place by his hair.

_“You lost the privilege of choosing when and what you eat, Takashi,”_ he said, with a snarl and a sharp tug. _“I **wanted** to let you keep that, but time and time again, you ignored Haxus’s orders. You chose to restrict and purge, proving that you don’t deserve to determine this for yourself. If you ever want to reclaim that right, you will need to **earn** it.”_

Now, Shiro has to choke down whatever Haxus tells him or Maurice will find worse punishments for him than this. He might take away Shiro’s access to the gym, put monitors in the house so that Shiro can’t purge while he’s alone. Shiro hasn’t been allowed to shave his own sides or face since that night at the end of June when Maurice found the self-inflicted cuts on his fuck-toy’s thighs. He’s had to wait until Maurice _feels_ like shaving him, then shut up, sit still, and be grateful that Maurice cares for _him_ enough to even bother giving Shiro this reward, this tiny bit of happiness whether or not Shiro particularly _deserves_ it, at the moment. He can’t decide when he wakes up in the morning, because Maurice and Haxus aren’t always home for dinner and they _must_ be certain that Shiro eats at least one proper meal. About the only things he can choose anymore are his clothes, his showers, and when to die…

Maurice’s hand drops onto Shiro’s shoulder, jerking him out of that thought. “Did you learn from our conversation last night, Takashi?” His grip’s so tight, Shiro would swear he already feels bruises forming. “We made these plans with my Mother _before_ you started acting out. Can we leave you by yourself for a long weekend, or will you ruin things with your penchant for drama?”

Shiro nods and says, “I’ll be fine.” As if it helps make his point, he swallows a spoonful of oatmeal.

Doubt creeps into his mind, though, after Maurice and Haxus leave for work. Shiro had plans for how to take Maurice down with him, how to somehow ruin the bastard’s life while ending his own… But racking his brain, he can’t remember any of them. Worse, this could fail, and he has no idea what Maurice will do to him as retribution. There’s no way he’ll appreciate this defiance.

Shiro only eats lunch because he lets himself purge. No one’s around to stop him, why bother denying himself one of the last things he has that doesn’t feel _wrong_? But lying in his room after, Shiro can’t pluck up the nerve to get the stash of pills from his desk. Whether Maurice forgot about them or simply hasn’t seen a point in taking them away, it doesn’t matter. Shiro has them and he needs to put them to use.

Instead, he blinks tears away and bites on his lip, dialing Ryou. He curls up on his side, listening to the ring. When he hears the click and Ryou’s pause-riddled, fumbling voicemail message, Shiro heaves a sigh. Hot on its heels, a sob claws its way up out of his throat. Ryou probably has a good reason for not picking up, but this must be a sign. Has to be.

“Code Black isn’t gonna work,” Shiro tells his brother’s inbox, voice cracking in a way that makes Shiro feel like gagging himself with a toothbrush until he pukes up all his organs. “I can’t wait… Don’t rush after me, okay? I love you, I’m sorry…”

Wasting no time once he hangs up, Shiro downs thirteen pills with tequila, three at a time, save the last. Ten milligrams of hydrocodone in each one. 130 milligrams total. That ought to do the job. As Shiro burrows into his pillow, he can’t remember what tension feels like. Nausea aside, Shiro’s whole body feels lighter for the first time in ages and freer than it ever has.

Until he wakes up with a stinging sensation in his nose and Maurice’s fingers knotted in his hair.

“How _fortunate_ that I came home early,” he says, tugging until Shiro whines. “And that Haxus taught me how to administer naloxone. I thought you’d _never_ make good on your histrionic threats, but you proved me wrong…” Maurice twists, waiting for Shiro to yelp before letting up. “Are you _pleased_ with yourself?”

Holding him in place, Maurice nudges their foreheads together. “I do not give you permission to die,” he snarls. “Go clean yourself up and call your poor brother before he has an aneurysm. He’s left five messages for you already.”


	7. no ground is ever gonna hold me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[Hebrews 11:40](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdKNxZcM5P0).”

Friday, September 13th, creeps up on Shiro, exactly as it was supposed to do.

That morning, he rises early, before Maurice and Haxus. He claws his way out of bed and pauses only twice on his way downstairs: once in the bathroom, and a second time to stick his head out a window, into the heavy fog. On a deep inhale, he catches the same mixed bag of scents that he can’t pick out exactly, can only identify as belonging to Maurice’s neighborhood. Only the chill is different from how things smell normally, traipsing down into Shiro’s lungs and making the fine hairs on his neck and forearms stand up.

Drizzle dusts against his skin, barely enough for him to notice at all, much less feel damp when he shuts the window, but if Shiro doesn’t manage what he’s planning, this could easily be the last time that he gets to experience this feeling. Depending on how badly this goes, he may not experience _anything_ again, which makes Shiro’s breath hitch in his throat. But he grips the banister too tightly as he skulks downstairs, digging the sharpest edge into his palm until he remembers how to breathe slowly, deeply, steadily, but not enough to attract attention.

Maneuvering past the luggage waiting in the foyer, Shiro pads into the kitchen. Maybe he isn’t hungry, but he makes his oatmeal and coffee like always. If he were allowed to make more than this, microwave soup, and sandwiches (as long as they don’t involve the stove or oven), he’d have a decent breakfast waiting for Maurice and Haxus. Busying himself, putting his hands to work on something, creating a distraction that Maurice can’t argue with… That might take Shiro’s mind off of worrying, even if he never shakes the creeping nausea that has nothing to do with his meds or his food. Forcing himself to keep eating, his mind keeps returning to the sense that, given what he’s planning, _something_ should’ve intervened and stopped him from going through with this.

He’s poking at his phone when Maurice strolls in, going over the texts that he and Ryou have traded lately. All of them are bullshit. Pictures of Ryou and his spindly, bug-eyed friend playing with Ryou’s neighbor’s dog or scribbling on a series of dry-erase boards about string theory stuff that Shiro doesn’t understand. Ryou complaining about his long-distance collaboration with some guy called Sven, who’s being mentored by one of his advisor’s friends at a university in Oslo and apparently uses smiley face emoticons enough to make Ryou cringe. When Maurice rubs Shiro’s shoulder and motions for him to hand his phone over, Shiro does so with a shrug and a long sip of coffee.

“Ryou’s the bonehead twin today,” he says. “He’s griping about teaching freshman like it’s not a part of his _job_ , now.”

Maurice hums noncommittally. “In his defense, sweet boy? Some professors have very different expectations of their TAs.”

After a too-long moment, he hands back Shiro’s phone. So, he didn’t disapprove of Shiro’s texts, emails, or recent calls, but this doesn’t feel like a victory. For the past two weeks, Shiro’s stuck to his own rules like he’s been hot-glued there: he and Ryou haven’t traded texts or emails that mention any plans. They’ve discussed things, but only when Shiro’s been out of the house; any calls they’ve shared from here have stayed limited to bullshit about Ryou’s coworkers, Shiro’s music, how cousins Kira and Tatsuya have birthdays coming up and Shiro wishes he could get a dog. Shiro’s deleted most of Ryou’s recent voicemails because bless his brother’s heart, Ryou’s subtle as a brick when he gets worried.

But Shiro isn’t off the hook until Maurice and Haxus hit the road, and he can’t afford to slip up. When Maurice squeezes his shoulder and tells him how _nice_ it is to see him up and about already, Shiro nods and bares the back of his neck. He shivers as Maurice ghosts two fingers down the top of his spine, gasps softly when Maurice bends down to kiss him. With Maurice’s arms curling around him, Shiro points out that he’s eating and that Maurice should get himself something too, if he intends to take the driver’s seat.

“Such _concern_ from someone so capable of fury…” Maurice chuckles against Shiro’s ear and it takes everything Shiro can muster not to jerk away. “What brought you into the waking world on your own?”

“I wanted to apologize. Show you that I _am_ working on this. Then, get a head start on some songs I’ve been working on, so I can post something new soon…” Shiro slips into the his cover-story so easily, but he can’t let himself dwell on it. This is nothing unprecedented. Maurice isn’t a fairy-tale monster. Shiro can handle this.

“Plus,” Shiro adds, reclining against Maurice’s broad chest. “I wanted to see you before you left for St. Louis.”

For a moment, Maurice clutches him tighter and Shiro worries that he’s given away his game. He’s already pushing his luck since Maurice and Haxus didn’t cancel their plans. But Maurice kisses his neck again instead. “Good boy… Thank you for not making my faith in you unjustified.”

It’s another hour-and-a-half before Shiro’s on his own and _believes_ Maurice won’t come back until Tuesday. He darts outside and tapes a fake _“OUT OF ORDER”_ sign on an open meter. He texts Maurice’s address to Ryou and Mark, with the message, _“Code Black.”_

Shiro’s on the staircase when Mark arrives, waiting with everything he hasn’t already put in storage. At the doorbell’s _ding-ding-dong!_ , he’s ready to move. But Shiro doesn’t fight when he opens up and Mark yanks him in close. Shuddering, he melts into an embrace with no poisonous undertones, the first safe hug he’s had in _months_ , and buries his face in Mark’s shoulder, trying to keep his breaths steady.

“It’s okay, man,” Mark whispers, rubbing Shiro’s back. “We’ve got you… It’s gonna be okay.”


	8. it was dark but the sunlight was coming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[Historiography](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j407FVKItPA).”

“Why _didn’t_ Maurice cancel their plans with his Mother?” Mark asks, some time after he and Shiro have gotten outside the Chicago city limits. He makes a vague, grousing noise when Shiro asks which part he’s confused about. “I mean, leaving you alone after you… y’know, all that?”

Shiro shrugs, grateful that he doesn’t have the energy to roll his eyes. “Haxus tried telling him they shouldn’t. Because they didn’t confiscate my stash, either. I had enough pills, I could’ve tried again, but…”

With a sigh, he slouches against the passenger-side door and stares at the buildings. They get more and more suburban as Mark keeps driving, but Shiro doesn’t think he’ll ever again feel truly settled. At least putting some more distance between himself and Illinois should help.

“Maurice thought he’d put the fear of retribution in me after I tried it the first time,” he concludes. “Obviously, he was _right_ , but…”

“But that’s not a _bad_ thing, yeah?” Mark’s voice tightens, quivers.

He holds his breath until Shiro agrees, “Not this time. Fear kept me alive.”

Whatever Mark’s thinking, he doesn’t argue and Shiro appreciates that. Leaning his seat back, he balls up an old sweatshirt as a pillow and tells Mark to wake him up if there’s a problem.

If anything happens, Shiro sleeps through it. Mark doesn’t rouse him at all until they stop for gas around Kenosha, which comes with a gentle instruction to go handle himself, get a drink if he wants one, or do whatever he needs to do in the mini-mart. For all Shiro groans about this being unfair and kinda rude when he was napping, he _does_ need to take a leak. Anyway, Shiro doesn’t understand half of what he’s saying, so even though he realized his needs all on his own, Mark would currently be well within his rights to get firm.

Back in the car with his coffee, his Diet Coke, and the crackers that Mark insisted on, Shiro slumps against his seat. Questions swamp his mind, too many to sort through, all coming at him too quickly for Shiro to prioritize or make a good call on heads or tails, and only making half-baked sense, in most cases. He keeps himself sitting up, though, so he’s less likely to drift off again. At the very least, he’s not in the mood for cold gas station coffee; he has to drink it all before he can do anything else.

They’re passing past another suburban-looking line of homes when Shiro finally manages to ask, “Have you heard anything about what’s up? From Ryou or Aunt Satomi?”

“Ryou’s flying into Milwaukee, yeah.” Mark huffs like it’s a struggle for him, pulling up the details while driving. But when Shiro tries to tell him not to stress himself out, he shakes his head. “I just had to think about the details… Couldn’t remember if his flight has a layover somewhere else or not. I don’t think so, but… He told me not to pick him up. Said he’d get a cab so I wouldn’t…”

Mark trails off with significance and Shiro can guess how that sentence ends: _“So I wouldn’t have to leave you alone when we don’t know how many pills you have or if you won’t try to kill yourself again.”_

Despite the feeling like something grating on his nerves, Shiro guesses he should be grateful that he was right. Most people _worry_ when someone they care about might be suicidal. They don’t make threats or claim that the person they’re dealing with belongs to them. They try to stick with their loved one, to be there and look out for them.

Combing his bangs off his forehead, Shiro says, “What about Aunt Satomi? Is she…?”

“She’s gonna be a few days meeting us.” Mark doesn’t sound like he enjoys this, but he isn’t frowning. “She and Kira are driving out in the van—”

“What, all the way from Rancho Cucamonga?”

“That’s what Ryou said.” Mark shrugs without taking his hands off the wheel. “I mean, you’ve got your stuff back in storage, staying in Chicago’s not an option unless you _want_ Maurice to find you, which he _can_ —”

“And Ryou and I can’t rent cars yet, but I’m gonna need to move.” Shiro nods. “At least Chicago to Massachusetts won’t be as much of a shock as Corpus Christi to Chicago.”

If Shiro knows anything about his brother, then it’s that Ryou will want to take him in.

If Shiro knows anything about himself, then it’s that he _hopes_ Ryou extends him this offer. He doesn’t even think he could put up a token fuss. Even before everything with Maurice, Shiro hated the idea of living alone, and right now, he can’t think of a housemate he’d love better than Ryou. Except for someone else who comes to mind—

“What’s going on with Keith?” Shiro says, blinking out the window. “I tried to call him but someone else answered…?”

For a moment, Mark goes quiet. He sighs like there’s a dam in his chest and he has to blow it up.

“I haven’t heard from Keith in _weeks_ ,” he admits, turning off the Paula Abdul song on the radio. “I’m sorry, I tried to talk him out of pawning his phone, but he’s more stubborn than you are…”

Shiro wrinkles his nose. “But where _is_ he?”

“Out East, is all I know. He wouldn’t tell me which school’s acceptance package he took.” Shaking his head, Mark casts a forlorn glance at Shiro. “He only let me drive him to Indianapolis. Then he told me to go home and said he’d find the rest of his way himself.”

“Yeah, that sounds like Keith,” Shiro guesses. “But thanks, I know you did what you could.”

“Shiro, man, I’m sorry—”

“No, this is good… Keith’s moving on. He deserves that.” What Shiro says next kicks him in the stomach, but that pain doesn’t make it wrong: “It’s okay, Mark. He’s better off.”


	9. the real truth about me, as clear as day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[You Or Your Memory](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HdO7LsEIBuM).”

Partway between Germantown and Cedarburg, they check into the cheapest motel that doesn’t look like it stinks of cigarettes and piss. It sure does reek of something, but right about now, Shiro will take it. Over a hundred miles doesn’t feel like they’ve gone far enough, but when Shiro flops into one of the mattresses, it creaks instead of threatening to swallow him up, the way his bed back in Chicago did. Rolling around, he finds the mattress hard, albeit slightly springy.

“I’m reassuring myself that it’s real and not Maurice’s place,” Shiro mutters, when Mark asks why he’s doing his best impression of a dog who can’t find his favorite spot on a sofa. “It’ll keep me grounded, y’know?”

Mark drops onto the other double bed. “I don’t think I do?” he says. “But that doesn’t mean that you’re… It just means that I’ve never been through it like this? Not like what Maurice’s put you through? The worst stunt that any of my exes ever pulled was either Cherise keying my car or Mickey trying to put Nair in my shampoo?”

“Lucky thing I smelled it before you put it on.” Sighing, Shiro rolls onto his side. He props his head up on both of the pillows and blinks at Mark’s legs, at his black skinny jeans with the torn-out knee, at the trembling hand balled up in his comforter. “I never understood why Mickey thought that scheme was going to work. Nair stinks like death.”

Nodding, Mark supposes that Shiro has a point and he doesn’t know why Mickey ever thought that this was fair retribution for getting dumped after three-and-a-half months of near-constant arguing. “But I mean, I also don’t know what you’re going through with, like? The rest, it’s just…”

He trails off into a whimpering sound so heavy that Shiro has to look toward Mark’s face. Immediately, Shiro wishes that he hadn’t. Mark’s paler than usual and the lamplight brings the dark rings beneath his eyes into sharper relief. He isn’t crying, but looks like he could start at any second. Thick brows knotted up, Mark watches Shiro as if he’s searching for something but _what_? Is he trying to find the cracks that Maurice left behind? Is he waiting for Shiro to snap or burst apart in a flood of pent-up emotions?

The silence grates on Shiro’s nerves while he’s watching Mark, and it makes him want to scream.

But finally, Mark says, “I don’t _get it_ , ‘cause I’ve never wanted to die like that? _And_ I’m not an addict—”

“Neither am I,” Shiro protests. Under the disappointed frown Mark shoots him, Shiro curls in tighter on himself. He takes a deep breath and heaves a sigh. He counts to fifteen in his head before he acquiesces, “Okay, I have a _problem_. Obviously, I didn’t learn what my Dad tried to teach me about drinking responsibly. I didn’t listen to him or my Mom when I got my wisdom teeth out and they told me to be careful with the post-op Percocet. And detoxing like I do means there’s _physical_ dependence going on…”

“But nothing else?” Mark says in a way that makes Shiro feel like this isn’t actually a question.

Unfortunately, it still sounds like one and Shiro has to think it over before he comes up with an attempted answer: “So, I’m not proud of myself right now, or what I’ve done? If my parents were with us, I’d be wishing they were mad at me instead of disappointed? If there’s any afterlife for real, then Grandfather Shirogane is probably _furious_ that his first son’s first son got named after him and wound up some _simpering, pretty boy burnout_ who makes bad music, kisses boys, and _let himself_ get seduced by a self-admitted monster because—”

“But that’s not what I asked,” Mark points out so gently that Shiro flinches, expecting something worse to follow. When there’s no smacking or hair-tugging or hand yanking him around by the face, Shiro huffs and adjusts himself. Mark’s frowning like he’s trying to decipher Ancient Greek. “And it’s not fair, either. Especially not on you.”

“What, you have a _better_ way of describing what I did?”

“I’m saying that what Maurice did to you? It wasn’t your fault. And I get that he was a challenge, but if your Grandfather Namesake was even half the man you’ve said he was?” Mark twists his hand up harder in the comforter and steels himself, not letting his gaze wander from Shiro’s face. “Then he wouldn’t think it was your fault, either. And he’d be proud of you for getting out.”

Right now, looking Mark in the eye makes the insides of Shiro’s arms itch like he’s got tiny insects swarming and skittering through his veins. He grabs onto his own blanket in the hopes that it might stop his hands from trembling. When that doesn’t work, Shiro tightens his grip. He wants to throw up whatever he can find in himself, whether it’s half-digested food or bile, internal organs or his bones. That thought, in turn, makes Shiro’s breath hitch in his throat. He coughs it free and inhales sharply. Staring at the wall over Mark’s shoulder seems like a good idea, since it gets him out of having to watch Mark’s disappointment, having to see the glimmer in his eyes like he’s two seconds off from crying.

But as Shiro hugs his legs, he gets a tight feeling on his neck like Maurice’s hand clenching down. Only two things can fix it: liquor, or his pills.

Groaning, Shiro shoves himself onto his back hard enough to make the springs whine, and he splays both hands over his face. His cheeks burn in heavy shame while the rest of him shivers like the first time Mark ever shoved a snowball down the back of his shirt.

“This is so…” Shiro starts, then shakes his head. Closing his eyes, he says, “I think I might be an addict.”


	10. saw the light of my spirit descend

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by “[White Cedar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yQGg58ixXjE).”

After a while of getting their bearings in the room, Mark ignores Shiro’s protests and drags him out to lunch. Not that Shiro can begrudge him any exasperation, considering how often Shiro’s used convenient excuses to skip meals, but they haven’t heard anything from Ryou and what if something goes wrong. What if there’s a problem and he can’t get here. What if he gets lost or gets the address wrong—

“I sent him a picture of the address, okay? Right off the notepad in the room.” Idly humming, Mark flicks through a canvas case of CDs and skims past several of his favorites. “Just in case I spelled something wrong when I texted him. He said he’d hit us up when he gets to Milwaukee. D’you feel like _Faith_ , _Freedom 90_ , or _Make It Big_?”

Shiro scrunches his face and deadpans, “You’re manipulating me with George Michael?”

Mark rolls his eyes. “No, I’m taking you to lunch. Because you need to eat and hopefully calm down. Even just a little. I’m putting on George Michael because he usually helps you out with both of those things.”

As much as Shiro _wants_ to argue on that point, he knows he can’t. So, instead, he shrugs and tells Mark, “ _Make It Big_ , I guess? Like, is it even humanly possible to be miserable when, ‘Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go’ comes on?”

Maybe, maybe not. But whether or not Shiro’s feeling miserable, he’s too tired to do more than limply sing along. Lunch doesn’t much help with that, and neither does the hour that they spend idly driving around Cedarburg afterward. Shiro can’t argue with Mark taking precautions against letting Shiro purge, but he’d at least _try_ to put up a fight if he weren’t so tuckered out that he’s actually letting himself say, _“Y’all”_ and think in terms like, _“tuckered out.”_ He’d be in the wrong for arguing about something that he knows is in his own best interests, but he’d _do it anyway_ , if he weren’t torn between anxiety and feeling like he could sleep for a week.

Back in the room, though, Shiro spends twenty minutes trying different positions on the bed and getting nowhere close to nodding off. He wastes another fifteen, leaning against the headboard with his weathered copy of _Mother Night_. This fails to lull him off, but Mark pipes up to say that Ryou’s flight landed. Still another ten minutes of rolling around the bed, and when this continues not to end in napping, Shiro nestles himself in the window-seat with his guitar in his lap. Working on anything in particular sounds like it’d be asking too much of himself and his attention span, but it helps enough to go over some of his older songs and some of the songs he knows. It keeps Shiro’s hands busy and his mind more or less occupied.

Besides, they have a good view of the parking lot, so Shiro should see when Ryou gets here.

“D’you think they’ll let me have my guitar with me in rehab?” he says after a while, idly strumming, “Big Yellow Taxi.”

When Mark looks up from his Silver Age _Doom Patrol_ anthology, Shiro shrugs. “I don’t _want_ to go, but I can guess what Ryou and Satomi will say. They’re probably right, but come on, a month without my guitar, at _least_? Even when I wanted to die, I couldn’t go a month without playing _something_.”

Mark makes a noise like, _“I don’t know,”_ which is fair. Then he tacks on, “But I mean, asking can’t hurt? And the one Trev went to let him keep his phone, so as long as you’re not trying to smuggle in pills or something? Which I know you’d never do, but the hypothetical _staff_ …”

With a nod and a sigh, Shiro switches it up to, “Come As You Are.” True, Nirvana isn’t exactly what he’s in the mood for, but he likes playing this song. Tilting his head on the bridge, Shiro peers out at what must be the sixth or seventh car that’s gotten his attention. From here, even in a first-floor room, all he can tell is that it’s the sort of black sedan that he and Ryou always thought belonged to undercover Men In Black or possibly Will Smith when they were kids.

None of the cars back then ever belonged to people who fought extraterrestrial menaces, but seeing Ryou climb out of the backseat makes Shiro’s heart flutter, skipping beats at random. He could wait. Maybe he should. Watching Ryou pull bills out of his wallet, though, Shiro gives up on patience. He sets his guitar in his case, then dashes for the lobby in his bare feet.

By the time Shiro gets there, Ryou’s leaning against the front desk. He has his left hand curled around the handle of his little rolling suitcase and his old black backpack weighing down his shoulders. Seeing his brother now, Shiro _wants_ to call his name. Another part of him, though, twists itself in writhing, squirming knots over seeing Ryou, like he didn’t need to deal with this, he deserves a better brother, and Shiro could still run back to Chicago. It isn’t even Saturday yet, Maurice and Haxus would never know that he was gone—

Except Ryou spots him before Shiro makes up his mind. He doesn’t waste any time, just drops his things and scoops Shiro into his arms.

“I’m so glad you’re still here…” he whispers, tightening his hold on Shiro’s chest while Shiro burrows into his neck and curls his arms around Ryou’s shoulders.

Nodding, Shiro tries not to let his knees give out. Tears spill out as he clings at Ryou, pressed against his soft chest. “I’m… working on it, okay?” he promises through a sob he can’t hold back. “But I wanna be happy about that, too…”

Ryou nods, petting Shiro’s hair and kissing the top of his head. “That’s good enough, Kashi. I love you.”


End file.
